Can't Have Everything
by morning-in-mei
Summary: To say that Grimmjow is an exhausting lover would be an understatement, but Stark thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way. Stark/Grimmjow, oneshot, interesting kinks, and yaoi up the wazoo.


The Sixth Espada takes a lot of pride in his released form. He knows that it is a flawless balance of aggression and grace, of raw power and an effortless fluidity of motion, and he never passes up an opportunity to flaunt it before a worthy opponent, or at least an opponent strong enough to last the moment or two needed to admire it before he is gleefully ripped to shreds.

Stark, as an unassuming spectator, admires it too. Higher though he may be in rank, he sees the liquid movements and appreciates; he feels the feral, roiling reiatsu and basks. But what Stark really loves about Pantera is the side that is shown to him, and _only_ to him.

Stark loves watching him undress. Grimmjow rarely makes a big deal of it; he is too impatient and too spontaneous to ever waste time to tease. But Stark's eyes fix upon the easy roll of a shoulder as bone-white armored plates slide smoothly back and melt away, drawing aside to reveal long legs and leanly muscled flesh, unraveling from a coiled tail as black and sleek-furred as the clawed hands and velvet-padded hind paws. His eyes feast, and his mind decides that any and all other stripteases can go to Hell and stay there.

He loves that tongue and that mouth, wet and scalding hot against his own, or laving a rough-textured path down his neck and his chest, to lap and flick against his nipples and graze against his abdomen with pointed white teeth. He revels in forcing breath from that mouth in harsh pants that build to half-gasped curses as their lips clash with bruising force and their movements quicken to a frenzy of sweat and friction and heat. And though Stark has never quite summoned up the courage to let Grimmjow take him into his mouth -- even at his most placid, the Panther is ever eager to draw blood and savor its taste, and Stark definitely doesn't trust him not to bite down on the spur of the moment -- he often imagines the sensations of that rough tongue sliding up then down his cock, of the slick ridges as the head rubs against the roof of that unbearably hot mouth, and the thought alone makes him hard and aching.

He loves the thick mane of shockingly blue hair and the way it falls forward to brush tantalizingly across his skin as Grimmjow grinds and rocks above him, face lowered, eyes narrowed, and brows knotted tight with concentration and tenuous self-restraint. Or the way it spreads upon the sheets beneath their frantically shifting bodies, not fanned out smoothly but in jagged streaks, like whiplash fragments of a sky turned upside down. Or even the way it tosses back in a long, liquid arc as Grimmjow throws his head back, throat caught on a strangled, barely held-in noise, and comes _hard_ all over both their stomachs.

But most of all, he loves Grimmjow's tail -- every single inch of its flexible length and every single kink he can think to explore with it. In his idle moments, Stark sometimes wonders if it isn't some sort of fetish on his part, and a very exclusive one, at that. He ceases to bother wondering at all when he feels the velvety brush against the back of his knee and it snakes lazily, unhurriedly up and around his thigh.

He remembers when he first discovered its sensitivity, his hand trailing eagerly down Grimmjow's spine and continuing downward when bony, skin-covered ridges gave way to short, silken black fur and the rope-like, corded muscles he could feel just beneath. Grimmjow gave a startled hiss against his open mouth and attempted to wrench his tail away from exploring fingers. Stark's hand followed, gripped more firmly, slid back up to its base and _stroked_, and Grimmjow shuddered, tensed, and pounced in a haze of hair-trigger arousal, knocking Stark onto his back with a jolt that made stars dance across his vision.

He remembers the day that Grimmjow was in an unusually cooperative mood, half-sprawled over Stark's legs and only twitching and fidgeting slightly with impatience as the latter knotted the last of several stiff leather straps to the end of his tail, irritably flicking the tufted end in Stark's face when he pulled it uncomfortably tight to ensure it wouldn't slip off. He remembers the heady rush of exhilaration and lust and absolute control, one hand on Grimmjow's hip to pull him back onto his cock for thrust after greed-driven thrust, the other relentlessly flogging him with the straps and with his own tail. Grimmjow bucked and snarled beneath him, a delicious crisscross of thin red lines decorating his writhing shoulders and back, erection painfully stiff and hanging dripping between his propped-up legs. Stark remembers pushing forward, straining deep and spilling deeper as he hears the sound of sheets rending and tearing within the death grip of sharp claws. He remembers that as one of the most blindingly mind-blowing orgasms he has ever experienced.

And he knows he will remember this time too, as he lets his hands pet lightly over the long, restlessly twisting appendage, as he runs his tongue along the insides of Grimmjow's lean, supple thighs and moves inward to lick between and beneath his balls, nudging the tip of his tongue just barely into the tight pucker of his anus before withdrawing to voice the dirty little idea that has crept its furtive way into his mind.

"Put it inside you."

As flushed and turned on as he is at this point, Grimmjow still manages to give him a look that makes Stark feel like an invisible target is being painted on his forehead. "Put ... _what?_ Run that by me again; fucked if I heard that right the first time around."

Stark resists the urge to remind him that he _is_ fucked, or is going to be very soon, at any rate. He holds back the part of him that is itching to forcefully remind him who should be intimidating whom, the part of him that just wants to pin the cocky bastard to the ground and screw him until he can't even stand anymore, let alone glare down his sharp, narrow nose at him like he's king of the whole goddamn universe. He shoves it all back into a small corner of his mind -- _Maybe later,_ he tells himself -- and repeats his words in clearer terms.

"I want to see you put your tail inside your ass. I want to watch you fuck yourself with it."

If Grimmjow was glaring before, Stark really doesn't have a word for what he's doing now, and the former's inner thoughts are transparent on his face; Grimmjow has never exactly been difficult to read, Stark thinks with some (tactfully hidden) amusement. He's oscillating back and forth between a blunt, flat-out denial and a "what-the-hell" sort of compliance, an impulse to try it out and see where it leads. A few seconds more, and Grimmjow's curiosity wins out over his stubborn contrariness. He reluctantly curls his tail in towards himself, and Stark allows himself a smile for his silent victory.

"Tch," Grimmjow sneers, pulling the end of his tail closer to his face, "Biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen." And then he's sliding the black-furred tip past his lips, letting his saliva coat and flatten the short black hairs until they glisten wetly, and Stark can't tear his gaze away as the appendage slips slowly downward and back. Grimmjow obligingly moves onto his hands and knees, facing away from him -- "View good enough for you?" he tosses drily over his shoulder -- and then it's prodding at his exposed asshole, hesitantly at first, then pressing in harder, more insistently, and Stark sees the way every muscle in his lower back goes taut as the tail finally pushes past the tightly ringed entrance and begins to wriggle deeper inside him.

Grimmjow is swearing to himself under his breath at the utter bizarreness of the self-stimulation, and Stark, mouth going dry and doing his best to keep from touching himself at the sight, can only keep watching as the dark, sinuous length sinks further and further inside that slowly stretching anus, inch by torturous inch.

And then stops.

Stark lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and shifts himself closer to Grimmjow, who is stock-still and forcing his own halting breathing into some semblance of regularity.

"Keep going," he murmurs against a jagged, pointed ear, running his teeth over the downy, pale blue lobe and licking up the tip to where the fur turns such a dark hunter green that it is almost black.

"Fuck you," Grimmjow edges out between clenched teeth, a rejoinder that disintegrates into a shivering groan as Stark seizes the section of tail protruding directly from his anus and pushes it in another couple of inches. There has to be more than a foot of it inside him now, and Stark, imagining the double sensations of deep penetration and burning, squeezing pressure, knows that Grimmjow is being steadily driven mad beneath him.

He cuts it short, more in answer to his own long-withheld lust than for any more merciful reasons. All the warning Grimmjow receives is four fingers, two on each side, probing under the tail already inside him and prying him open wider, before the head of something considerably thicker is working its way into his ass. He opens his mouth, to protest or curse or possibly both at once, but no sound makes it past his throat as Stark seats himself fully inside in one driving thrust.

Stark doesn't wait for him to regain his voice, and immediately sets a fast and brutal pace for their fucking. "Bastard" and a million other less generous words are probably teetering at the tip of Grimmjow's tongue, but Stark vastly prefers the harsh panting and bitten-back moans that are currently coming from his mouth. The texture of slicked fur rubbing along the top of his cock is incredible, and the additional thickness of the tail makes for an even tighter fit around him than usual. His thrusts slow, savoring the uniquely pleasurable sensation, then quicken again, and now Grimmjow's voice has returned to him.

"Fuck -- _fuck_ -- yesssss, harder," he whispers hoarsely, pushing back with demanding hips as Stark does his best to comply. Grimmjow likes it rough, loves it actually, and once he is caught up and insane in his own pleasure, he will do everything in his power to make it as wild a ride as he can get.

Some of it is rubbing off on Stark too, as he twists his fingers into the ends of long blue strands and yanks hard, and Grimmjow's head snaps back with a gasp as his exposed throat works furiously, convulsively. It's still not enough, and Stark's other hand grips Grimmjow's shoulder tightly enough to bruise and wrenches him backward until their sweat-slicked bodies are flush against each other, back to chest, cock continuing to pump inexorably in and out, in and out.

Grimmjow is howling his wordless encouragement now, palm pressed flat against Stark's thigh and claws digging in deep enough to draw blood. The pinpricks of pain spur him to new heights, mindlessly slamming up and in, again and again, deeper and faster and deeper still until he swears that he could place his hand over Grimmjow's lower belly, just below his hollow hole, and feel the head of his own cock throbbing underneath his fingers. And then, seized by some animalistic instinct that he never feels and never understands except when they're fucking like this, he sinks his teeth into the back of Grimmjow's neck and gives one final thrust and lets go, the metallic tang of blood sharp and potent on his tongue as he comes in jerking, erratic spurts as far inside that tight passage as he can reach.

He thinks he hears Grimmjow scream out his own release, but he can't discern much over the sudden muddled heaviness in his brain and the thudding of his own heartbeat in his ears. They collapse against each other, sticky and exhausted and learning how to breathe again. It's more than a little bit messy, but Stark nevertheless takes a moment to enjoy the warmth of the body next to his.

It's Grimmjow who spoils the mood, of course.

He pulls away without preamble, face twisted in a grimace that turns into a sardonic, razor-edge grin as he draws the end of his slippery, cum-matted tail out of himself with a wince. "Shit, that's nasty. Another one of your bright ideas, eh?"

Stark shrugs that one off, propping himself up on one elbow to look at him blandly. "You liked it well enough. Wasn't this time at least rough enough for you?"

Grimmjow laughs, a loud, snapping bark of sound that is just as much an excuse to display a threatening row of white, needle-pointed teeth. "That? Hardly. As if a lazy son of a bitch like you could ever play rough enough for _my_ taste."

Stark rolls his eyes and lets his head flop back onto the bed again, not watching as the other disappears into the bath, leisurely licking off the blood on his claw tips and doing an admirable job of hiding the wobble in his steps. He'll be in there for a while, Stark guesses, and he'll be spending the majority of the time muttering spiteful things to himself while scrubbing vigorously to rid his tail of the dried cum now crusted dirty white in the jet black fur.

He has enough breath in him now to sigh, and he heaves a big one.

Stark loves everything about him: La Pantera, La Sexta Espada. He loves that body, that hair, that tongue and that _tail_, and fuck yes, he loves the sex that goes along with all of the above. But having Grimmjow Jaegerjaques for a lover is a hell of a demanding occupation, and Stark really, really wishes for just one thing.

He wishes that Lilinette would let him nap more often.

~ END ~


End file.
